


Opiate

by followsrabbit



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 05:38:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8132417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followsrabbit/pseuds/followsrabbit
Summary: Blue does not have much experience with addiction - but she's learning.
(In which Blue really likes kissing Gansey.)





	

Blue does not have much experience with the word _addiction_ , save for the lessons touted in elementary school D.A.R.E. programs and high school health lectures.

It’s not that she hasn’t had the _opportunity_ —plenty of her classmates slip out of school to smoke cigarettes and other substances behind the gym. Some of them even ask her for those other substances. As though ‘family of psychics’ equates to ‘drug connections.’ Blue once spent the bulk of her lunch period ranting to one such asshole over the differences between ‘psychic trance’ and ‘recreational marijuana.’ (No one has mentioned it to her since.)

And, sure, plenty of people still mistake her brand of unconventional for flat-out anarchy, and probably wonder if she ever sneaks vodka out of a water bottle between classes like some of Henrietta’s other supposed rebels do, but—

Blue does not do drugs. Blue does not drink alcohol. She doesn’t like to think of herself as an intolerant person, and suspects she would consider trying one or the other in the right circumstance, but the ‘right circumstance’ will never come during school hours with the most moronic members of her senior class.

So - Blue has no first hand experience with addiction.

But, as Gansey twines his large fingers with hers, and pulls her over Monmouth’s threshold with a genuine, beaming grin on his face, she thinks she might have an idea of the sensation. Roughly.

(Then he tilts his head down to hers, his mouth against hers, and she _knows_ she does. Explicitly.)

Kissing Gansey without the threat of death smothering her heartbeat and brain is more of a thrill she would ever admit to him. It’s somehow both every cliff she's ever wanted to dive and every second of meditation she’s ever inhaled, and everything is alive and at peace and _right_. He makes her think in clichés. He makes her breathless. He makes her want to tear his ridiculous orange polo shirt straight from his skin, and scratch her fingernails up his crew-toned abs, just to leave a mark. Just to prove that she can touch him without cursing or killing him.

But for now, Gansey weaves his fingers through her recently cut hair, plucking out her small, neon clips with careless speed. They litter his floor, and it’s going to be _hell_ collecting them all later, and Blue would definitely tell him off for that, except—

His lips slide against hers, warm and persistent and curved. She can taste his mint and his happiness; it’s an opiate hazing her mind, wreaking an equal pressure from her own mouth. Her own tongue. Blue doubts she will ever giving stop Gansey a hard time, but a lecture on hair accessories would prove counterproductive to her present exploration of his bronzed skin and relentless smile.

He breaks away with a white glint of teeth a moment later. Blue's chest swells with satisfaction at stealing his breath in a totally normal, non-prophetic, _non-fatal_ way.

“Jane,” he says through his next exhale, and then his lips are on her skin again, wandering along her cheeks and chin and neck. Gansey always needs a quest of some sort, and right now, he makes one of her collarbone. As he strokes and sucks and nips, Blue ponders that he too might want to leave a mark.

Their feet almost tangle when she begins to push him deeper into Monmouth’s heart and closer to its exposed bed. They’ve fallen entwined on its stark mattress too many times now for Blue to feel nervous—she knows that the presence of a bed doesn’t mean they have to do anything more than this. Than learn each other. That they have all the time in the world for the rest. And that when they do go farther, it won’t be in a common area where anyone could walk in on—

With her lips free, even as her hands muss his perfect hair into a dark frenzy, Blue tilts her head. “Ronan.” They land in a thud, Gansey on his elbows and Blue with her knees hiked around his hips. Gansey’s hands resting on her waist, consuming the bare skin that her shirt’s cut-outs reveal, and Blue’s curled around his nape.

Gansey pauses mid-perusal of the thin skin just above her collarbone. “Pardon?”

She rolls her eyes. “Is he here?” she enunciates with a meaningful glance at his closed bedroom doorway.

“He’s staying at the Barns.”

“Adam?”

Gansey lifts his head to meet her gaze, possibly for the sole purpose of arching an eyebrow at her. “With Ronan.”

It hurts Blue for a stabbed pulse not to have to ask about Noah, but—

Maybe her brow creases at the thought of her friend, his afterlife, his absence. Maybe Gansey smooths the lines marring her forehead with a gentle hum of his thumb. “It’s only us, Jane.”

Only them.

Stealing his other hand from her waist, Blue presses her lips along his spindled palm lines. She traces all the marks that foretell his future, and spells a new one into those long, thin creases.

_Them. Them. Them._ Theirs.

“In that case,” she whispers against his mound of Venus, “I’m taking your horrendous shirt off.”

Gansey slants a laugh into her temple. Blue tugs at the hem of his Lacoste nightmare, hurrying it past his hipbones and up his abdomen, until Gansey pulls away to help her lift it straight over his head.

Blue snatches that moment of separation, and pockets the full view it gives her of his hard chest and lithe stomach. Not much more than a year ago, she would have looked at his prep-school-perfect front and thought _asshole_. Now, the only words she can summon are _Gansey, beautiful, love,_ mine _._

Claiming his lips again, Blue takes her time roaming from his mouth to his jawline to his throat to his chest. (She spends the most time on his heartbeat, its unceasing rhythm.)


End file.
